The Garret of a Bohemian
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "La bohème". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: _The Garret of a Bohemian_

**Author**: Camberleigh Fauconbridge

**Rating**: PG - 13 / T

**Pairings**: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras] Mosette [Marius/Cosette]

**Summary**: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "_La bohème_". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.

**Disclaimer**: _Les Misérables_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_. _La bohème_ is the property of Giacomo Puccini, Henri Murger, Luigi Illica, Giuseppe Giacosa, Théodore Barrière, Robert Dornhelm, all the casts and all the creative teams that have produced any production of _La bohème_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Imagined Cast**: Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras/Rodolfo; Samantha Barks as Éponine/Mimì; Hadley Fraser as Grantaire/Marcello; Nick Jonas as Marius/Schaunard; Jonathan Williams as Combeferre/Colline

**Author's Note**: Has anyone else noticed that Anna Netrebko almost looks like an older Samantha Barks? Except Samantha Barks does musical theatre, not opera, and Anna Netrebko isn't a mezzo-soprano. But other than that.

Moving on…

I recently watched the 2008 _La bohème_ film (the one with Anna Netrebko as Mimì, Rolando Villazón as Rodolfo, George Von Bergen as Marcello, and Nicole Cabell as Musetta), and within seconds of the music starting, I fell in love. There is a definite reason why this is one of the most performed operas ever. It was magnificent introduction into opera.

As I was watching _La bohème_, I couldn't help but notice that the set seemed to be straight out of _Les Misérables_ or _Oliver!_, as well as the setting, the characters and some of the situations. Combined with the fact that, as stated above, Anna Netrebko and Samantha Barks look similar, an idea popped into my head. What would a _Les Misérables_,_ La bohème_-inspired story look like?

Obviously, there are a few problems.

The first. Fantine is the closest character to Mimì, with her background as a seamstress and the tuberculosis. However, there isn't enough information about Fantine's group of friends— Blachevelle and Favourite, Listolier and Dahlia, Fameuil and Zephine— and Tholomyès is nothing like Rodolfo.

The second. If I went with the _La bohème_ time frame, in the 1830s: Musichetta, in my mind, is the only character who would fit right from the start; Musetta and Musichetta's names are even similar. Cosette and Marius wouldn't be perfect fits for Mimì and Rodolfo.

There is one other pairing that's left: Éponine and Enjolras.

But they don't quite fit, either. Enjolras is rich (he wouldn't get into the University of Paris otherwise). Éponine is practically homeless, and asides from the fairly obvious occupation (prostitution), she doesn't work. Enjolras obviously wouldn't live in some measly attic. Éponine does die near the end just like Mimì, but not from a disease. Éponine is also the opposite of frail, she doesn't get embarrassed easily, and Marius-Rodolfo/Éponine-Mimì wouldn't work. Enjolras wouldn't fall in love at first sight, either (or in love at all, really). Éponine might (though it's infatuation, not love), but not with Enjolras.

And then there's the whole other problem of who would be Marcello, and the list goes on and on.

So why am I even writing this, if it wouldn't work? Why am I torturing you, reader, with this author's note, even though you've probably closed out of this already?

Because, as messed up and cracked as this is, I think it might just work.

So. I've decided to go with the second option, having it set in the 1830s. Although you may hate me for this:

Éponine (though it will take some work) will be Mimì. Enjolras (though it will take even more work than Éponine) will be Rodolfo. Musichetta (no surprises here) will be Musetta. And Marcello… After quite a lot of debate, Grantaire will be Marcello.

Please don't abandon this quite yet. It's not as bad as it sounds. I think.

Various members of the Friends of the ABC will make appearances. Marius will still be in love with Cosette. Things will be twisted. But please trust me when I say it might work. This has a chance. A slight chance, but a chance all the same.

And I almost forgot: no, this is not based in any way off _RENT_. I have never seen _RENT_, so if you're looking for that, I'm afraid I can't help you.

* * *

Act I: _Rodolfo_

Scene 1

* * *

_The curtain rises to reveal the outline of a garret. The furnishings are sparse and almost Spartan-like: a decently sized table of poor workmanship; a trunk filled with papers, shoved by the wall; an easel bearing a painting of an undistinguishable shape. There is a dark hearth filled only with ashes. Half for the roof (there is no proper ceiling) is the traditional timbers and shingles. The other half is made of glass; thick, dirty panes of glass that are quickly being covered with snow._

_There are two men in the garret. One, with black hair and even darker eyes, is sitting at the table, writing. The other, with light brown, almost dark blonde hair and the beginnings of a few days' old beard, is lazily painting random shapes onto a canvas; he is clearly bored, and seems to be uncaring about his finished product._

_The music starts. For the moment, it is a quiet murmur._

* * *

For the seventh time, Enjolras rested the tip of the old fountain pen on a fresh sheet of paper, trying to summon the right words. He had been quite close in the last draft, but it was still missing something. He focused on a nondescript crack in the plastered wall, thinking hard. After a few moments, he looked at the blank paper and began to write, slowly and carefully.

_Our society is built on the back of its lowest members. This cannot continue._

All at once, there was a loud clatter as a large object was thrown at the window. His hand jerked, leaving a thin black line on the otherwise pristine page. Enjolras swore and tried to dab at the line before it could dry, but only succeeded in creating a smear. He had been _so close_, too. "Grantaire, what on _earth_ did you toss at the window?" But he saw the answer before Grantaire could verbalize it. A canvas lay face-up on the floor, and there was a large smear of dark colors on the dirty window. "_Why_ did you throw a painting at the window? Particularly a painting that _hadn't dried_? What has gotten into you?"

"I'm bored, cold, and I can't get the image in my head onto the bloody canvas. In other words, I'm doing wonderfully."

"Grantaire—" Enjolras resisted the urge to swear again. "If you're cold and unsatisfied with the painting and all that, why not, I don't know, burn the painting or something?"

"A burned canvas will make this place smell horribly. What about the chair?"

"Do you want to stand until we move out of here?"

"What about the papers you're planning on throwing out?" Grantaire suggested.

Enjolras had been planning, once he had finally finished a decent draft, to look over the other drafts for shreds of potential, but the idea of a fire in the hearth— especially since the wind was picking up outside, and the makings of a blizzard along with it— sounded much more appealing. "Fine."

As Enjolras returned to his paper, Grantaire started searching his pockets for matches— an object more precious that gems during Parisian winters. When he found none, he searched the niches and cracks of the garret until he finally found them. He grabbed the topmost paper and theatrically held it aloft. "The paper will crackle and turn to ashes, then the poetry will rise to Heaven! Within that languid blue flickering flame, an ardent tale of love will fade! [1] Farewell to—"

"Grantaire, it's a draft of a political newspaper column, not an opera. Will you burn the thing already?"

Within moments, a small, weak fire was burning in the hearth, emitting hardly any warmth, and in a few seconds, the flames were reduced to embers. Grantaire grabbed the entire stack and set it aflame, but this lasted only a few minutes at the most.

Enjolras had started once more on fresh piece of paper. Without looking up, he asked, "What are you going to do about the paint on the window?"

"What am _I_ going to do? I'd be perfectly fine with leaving it there."

"The landlord will eventually notice."

"And I'm supposed to care what the landlord thinks."

"Grantaire…" Enjolras sighed. "Could you at least _try_ to get to the point where people aren't annoyed by you all the time?"

"Why should I care what other people think about me?" Grantaire crossed over and replaced the painting back into its position in the easel. "You know, it actually looks better like this. Maybe I should do this to everything I paint."

"So tourists can buy a glob of paint on a canvas and call it art?" Enjolras stood up. "I'm going to get something to clean the window." He left Grantaire to consider his new inspiration, privately wondering if his friend was going to do anything more with his life.

* * *

[1] This is actually part of an English translation of two different stanzas from the first scene of _La bohème_: _No, in cener la carta si sfaldi/e l'estro rivoli ai suoi cieli_ (No, the paper will crackle and turn to ashes/then the poetry will rise to Heaven), and _In quell'azzurro - guizzo languente/Sfuma un'ardente - scena d'amor_ (Within that languid blue flickering/flame, an ardent tale of love fades).


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: _The Garret of a Bohemian_

**Author**: Camberleigh Fauconbridge

**Rating**: PG - 13 / T

**Pairings**: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras] Mosette [Marius/Cosette]

**Summary**: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "_La bohème_". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.

**Disclaimer**: _Les Misérables_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_. _La bohème_ is the property of Giacomo Puccini, Henri Murger, Luigi Illica, Giuseppe Giacosa, Théodore Barrière, Robert Dornhelm, all the casts and all the creative teams that have produced any production of _La bohème_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Imagined Cast**: Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras/Rodolfo; Samantha Barks as Éponine/Mimì; Hadley Fraser as Grantaire/Marcello; Nick Jonas as Marius/Schaunard; Jonathan Williams as Combeferre/Colline

**Author's Note**: So am I the only one who at least has heard of _La bohème_?

All right, we've gotten to a hard part: Éponine as Mimì. The traditional image for Mimì in _La bohème_ is frail and beautiful. The traditional image for Éponine in _Les Misérables_ (in the book, at least) is the opposite of frail and, frankly, not that pretty.

What would you like to see? Éponine in a _La bohème_ type of image, being at least passably pretty? Or Éponine in a _Les Misérables_ type of image? I'm going to need some feedback, because I can't quite decide. She won't come in during this chapter, so there's time to decide.

* * *

Act I: _Rodolfo_

Scene 2

* * *

Enjolras descended the old staircase quickly, rubbing his hands over his arms in a futile attempt to retain warmth. Was this winter trying to outdo the winter of 1788-89?

As he went, he glanced at the various open-or-closed doors that housed the other tenements. There was Marie— she went by no other name— a deeply religious elderly woman who was convinced that the Virgin Mary had spoken to her. There were the Martins, a middle-aged husband and wife who fought like devils over the slightest thing. There was Adrien, a young man who kept to himself; Enjolras had spoken to him once. There were the Laurents, a couple who were the exact opposite of the Martins— the Laurents were young and in love; everyone in the building suspected they had eloped at some point.

One other tenement was occupied by a young woman who went by the name of Éponine. Enjolras had never spoken to her, but he had occasionally seen her on the staircase; she would often have a piece of embroidery with her. Other times she would be meeting a man right outside the building; the men would be different every time. Was she a lover to these various men? Perhaps, or perhaps not; Éponine kept very much to herself.

Enjolras reached the area that passed as a lobby and went to the landlady's office that doubled as her living quarters. Mme. Bougon— or, as Grantaire called her, informally, _Ma'am_ Bougon— had a sharp tongue and a gruff personality, but generally did any request that one made.

He knocked on the old wooden door. "Mme. Bougon?"

After a few seconds, the door opened. "Good evening to you, M. Enjolras. What is it?"

"Do you happen to have any cleaning supplies?"

"Let me look." Bougon stepped out into the "lobby", locking her door behind her, and went to a small closet. There was a limp, filthy rag and a bucket of water that was nearly frozen. It was unclear as to whether there was any soap in the water. "Will that do, monsieur?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll bring it back as soon as I'm done." Enjolras nodded and went to the stairs. As soon as he started climbing the stairs, the building's main door opened. Combeferre pulled a dazed Marius into the lobby.

"What happened to Pontmercy, Combeferre?"

Combeferre sighed. "A girl, that's what happened. I'll explain more when we get upstairs. Help me with him, won't you? I don't trust him to walk on his own."

Once they got to the garret, Marius was unceremoniously deposited in a chair. Enjolras asked again, "What actually happened, Combeferre? Was it a lady of the evening-type, or..."

"Do you think he would have enough courage to enter a brothel? Unfortunately for him, penniless, starving artist that he is, it was a respectable, rich, bourgeois-type. What was her name... Colette—"

"Her name is Cosette," Marius said. The dazed, stunned look had not left his eyes. "Her real name is Euphrasie, and 'Cosette' is a nickname. That's what she told me."

"Apparently," Combeferre said, "he was at a house translating documents and he met this Cosette. She caused him to be so enamored with her that he translated whatever she gave him for free."

"It was a little book of poetry, Combeferre," Marius muttered.

"But you translated it _for free_. Do you ever think with your head? That could have been a little extra money, but love comes before bread with you, I guess."

"I couldn't just ask her for extra money!"

"Luckily," continued Combeferre, ignoring Marius, "the father of the love of Marius' life gave him a few extra _francs_ for translating more than he was supposed to, which means we scraped together enough to buy wood, bread and wine. Even if it does go against Marius' determination to be a starving artist whose only appreciated after he's dead."

"First of all, I'm not an artist, and second, you can be an artist and be appreciated before you're dead. Look at Mozart, with his _Le nozze di Figaro_, or _Don Giovanni_—"

"Ironic that you should bring that particular opera up, with your Cosette–"

"I think we've had enough of torturing Pontmercy," Enjolras said, as Marius look ready to strangle Combeferre. "Let's divide up the food and finally get a fire started."

"Wait, we shouldn't eat the food now," Marius interrupted. "Let's save it."

"Why?"

"Well, let's go out, instead."

"We don't have enough money to go out, in case you haven't noticed."

"Now we do. It'll be on me this time. Do you really want to spend Christmas Eve in here?"

"I guess not." Enjolras looked at Combeferre and Grantaire. "What do you think?"

"I say let's go," Grantaire said, and Combeferre agreed. "What about the Café Musian?" Everyone agreed, but then a knock came at the door.

When Grantaire opened the door, Mme. Bougon was standing there, holding a bill in her hand. "Good evening, gentlemen. I have a rent issue to discuss. May I come in?"

All four remembered that the rent hadn't be paid for at least two months. They shouldn't be going to a café with money that could be used for the rent; they had already wasted some with the food and the firewood. "Of course, madame," Grantaire said, letting her come in; this time he didn't call her _ma'am_ to her face.

"Now, messieurs, you are aware that you haven't paid rent for two months?" Bougon asked. No one answered. Enjolras picked up the rag and began cleaning the window; he had no desire to be part of the conversation.

"Why don't you have a seat, Mme. Bougon?" Grantaire said. "Combeferre, stoke the fire, will you, and Marius, bring the madame a glass of wine." The three could tell what Grantaire was doing, and hopefully Bougon wouldn't.

"I'd like to call a toast," Combeferre said as he raised his own glass, catching on quickly, "to Mme. Bougon's health. May she live to a ripe age, healthy and happy." Marius and Grantaire repeated, and the four drank. Enjolras said and drank nothing.

Quite soon, after repeated toasts and evading the subject of the rent, Bougon was more than a little drunk. Evidently she was someone with whom it did not take much to become intoxicated.

"What's this about your feelings for a M. Benoît [1]?" Grantaire said, setting his glass to the side.

"What about him?" Bougon asked, somewhat slurred.

"I've heard a rumor that you're often seen with him at the Mabille Ball."

"Oh! Well, he certainly can be very charming. But why do you want to know?"

"Would M. Bougon be happy if he heard about this?" Combeferre asked.

Grantaire saw another opportunity. He affected an air of mock disappointment. "Oh, Mme. Bougon, tell me it isn't what I think it is." Marius almost started laughing, but quickly turned it into a cough.

"Well—" Mme. Bougon seemed highly confused. "M. Bougon doesn't like the Mabille Balls, and M. Benoît does make the evenings delightful."

"But, my dear lady, you are married! In the good name of morality, it would be unwise for us to associate with you."

"I say—"

"And don't worry, your secret is safe with us." Grantaire led Bougon to the door.

"Now, wait a moment—"

"And have a merry Christmas Eve!" Grantaire shut the door before Bougon could say anything else.

The four looked at each other.

"_And_ we've still got the rent money."

"Grantaire, we're going to have to pay it eventually," Enjolras said as the others pulled on coats.

"We will— just not right now. Let's go before the café closes."

"You can go ahead. I still have to work on the column."

"Are you sure, Enjolras?"

"Yes, I'll meet you there. Try to get a good table."

"All right." Combeferre, Marius and Grantaire left, shutting the door behind them.

Enjolras lit one of the precious candles with the flames from the somehow-still-burning fire; he knew from experience that firelight alone would not be enough. Then he sat down and rewrote the first few sentences from the most recently-ruined draft: _Our society is built on the back of its lowest members. This cannot continue._

Then there was, for a second time, a knock on the door.

It couldn't be Marius or Grantaire or Combeferre; they had already left. Was it Bougon? But she was still drunk and at least somewhat confused; he didn't think she would remember enough to come back.

He got up to answer the door, unaware that at least for tonight, he would not be going to the Café Musian.

* * *

[1] Benoît is the name of the amorous landlord in _La bohème_. He only comes in for one scene, but provides at least part of the comic relief. Since I put Ma'am Bougon in Benoît's place, I decided to at least reference to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: _The Garret of a Bohemian_

**Author**: Camberleigh Fauconbridge

**Rating**: PG - 13 / T

**Pairings**: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras] Mosette [Marius/Cosette]

**Summary**: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "_La bohème_". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.

**Disclaimer**: _Les Misérables_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_. _La bohème_ is the property of Giacomo Puccini, Henri Murger, Luigi Illica, Giuseppe Giacosa, Théodore Barrière, Robert Dornhelm, all the casts and all the creative teams that have produced any production of _La bohème_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Imagined Cast**: Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras/Rodolfo; Samantha Barks as Éponine/Mimì; Hadley Fraser as Grantaire/Marcello; Nick Jonas as Marius/Schaunard; Jonathan Williams as Combeferre/Colline

**Author's Note**: Éponine as Mimì comes in for this chapter!

One thing I have to clear up: there will be no Marius/Éponine. I know it's canon in _Les Misérables_, but it wouldn't work with this. Can you picture Mimì and Schaunard? I thought not. And Enjolras/Éponine is basically considered crack canon in the _Les Misérables_ musical archive, anyway.

* * *

Act I: _Rodolfo_

Scene 3

* * *

Enjolras opened the door to see a young woman.

He recognized her to be Éponine, but he had never looked at her before; at best, they had given each other polite glances as they passed each other on the staircase.

The first thing he noticed was that she was very, very, very slender. Not frail, but thin, as if she had a decent meal only once a week. She wore a formfitting, low-cut dress of decent quality that went along with the rumors of her being a lover to many men. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her eyes, because of the dim light, were an undistinguishable dark color.

"Excuse me, monsieur," she said. "May I ask a favor of you?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Well, my candle went out in my apartment, and I don't have anything to start a fire with to relight the candle. Would you be so kind..."

"Of course, come in—"

Suddenly Éponine was doubled over, coughing so violently it sounded as if her lungs were going to give out from exertion. She grasped the doorpost in a effort to steady herself. In a lapse in the coughing, Enjolras went to Éponine's side and helped her to a chair inside the garret. "Are you all right, mademoiselle?"

"It's nothing, really—" But she began coughing once more.

He looked around for a glass of water— but there wasn't any; and if there was, it probably wouldn't be safe to drink— there was only the wine. He filled a glass and carefully handed it to her. "Water would be better, I know, but this is better than nothing. Mademoiselle, are you sure you are all right? You seem ill."

"It's nothing, monsieur, it was just the staircase..." She drank some of the wine. Gradually the color returned to her features.

"Are you feeling any better?"

She nodded. "I— I believe so. Thank you, monsieur, I'm so sorry to bother you, I'll just light the..." She never finished the sentence, however, when she realized her that, strangely, both her candle and her key was gone. Enjolras didn't remember her dropping them.

"Where did you drop the candle?"

"I don't remember, exactly. I don't even remember dropping it. I'm being an inconvenience to you, monsieur, I'm sorry—"

Then, as luck would have it, the fire finally burned itself out on the last of the firewood until only embers were left. There was not enough to relight her candle even if they did find it.

"It's my turn to be an inconvenience to you, mademoiselle. I—" He glanced over at the now nonexistent woodpile— "do not have a way to restart the fire. I'll help you back to your apartment so you don't break your neck going down the stairs in the dark."

"That won't be necessary, monsieur, because I don't have my key."

"You don't?"

"I must have dropped it along with the candle." She looked away, embarrassed. "I normally don't do this, monsieur. And rest assured, this isn't a ploy for your affections or anything like that. I'm too ill to be coy, anyway."

"If you're that ill, you shouldn't be staying in a cold room with no fire, mademoiselle."

"Forgive me, but this garret is basically the same as my apartment, temperature-wise. And I'm getting on your nerves, I see."

"You're not, mademoiselle, and I can restart the fire somehow, if you wish."

"I— all right."

Once he looked a second time, Enjolras realized there were, in fact, a few pieces of wood that he hadn't seen because of the dim light. He stoked the fire as Éponine finished her glass of wine.

Why he was insisting she stay, he did not know.

Éponine was searching around the door, stepping carefully. "I think I may have dropped it around here," she explained. After they both searched for a few minutes, Enjolras saw a glimmer of silver in the dim light. He bent down to pick up what he hoped was the key.

"I believe I found your key, mademoiselle," he said as he handed it to her. He purposefully tried to avoid letting their fingers touch— after all, he had no desire to be involved with a woman— but it didn't work.

What surprised him, however, was not a "shock", but the feeling of the deathly, unnatural, icy feel to Éponine's hand. The only ones he knew that had hands that cold were those that were affected by a disease; coupled with her violent coughing, he came to a conclusion.

"Mademoiselle, I know you've been claiming that you are fine, but you don't seem well at all. This may be coming from my duties as a host, but I insist that you stay here where the temperature is actually decent. I will not have you freeze to death."

"Oh, that's so kind of you, monsieur," she said sarcastically. "I insist that I leave, because I am clearly irritating you and you should be out celebrating with your family or your friends. If I freeze to death, that's my problem."

"Mademoiselle—" He sighed. "The only reason that you are irritating me is because you are insisting you leave. It is Christmas Eve, after all. What kind of a host would I be if I let you go back to your freezing apartment?"

"A logical one."

"All right." He pulled up the only chair. "Then I won't be logical, because no one should be alone on Christmas Eve. We can argue each other to death if you want, instead."

"But we don't know each other. We can't exactly argue that way." She conceded and sat down. "Tell me about yourself so we can properly argue."

"All right." He sat on the trunk that was filled with his papers.

He was a columnist for a revolutionary newspaper, he told her. He had attended the University of Paris for a time, but his rebellious, treasonous talk had made him expelled from the university. As a result, his parents, from the shame of having a son that had been expelled, cut him from their will and refused to help support him any longer. He now made his living as a journalist, instead of as a lawyer, as he had originally planned.

"Your talk at the university must have been quite treasonous for you to be expelled. I though money would compensate."

"That's what I thought as well, but the university is quite Royalist-oriented, you see."

"What was your talk that was so traitorous?"

"I am a Republican, if that's saying anything."

"Oh." She looked surprised. "And you went to a _Royalist_ university?"

"I didn't much of a choice."

"Do you enjoy life as a journalist-type, then? Or do you still want to be a lawyer?"

"What I—"

Wait a minute.

"Are you a Royalist, mademoiselle?"

Her eyes grew hard. "Not with the country the way it is, no."

"Then I won't offend you with what I'm going to say."

"Do you think I couldn't handle it?"

"No, I just do not want to get into an argument about politics when I still don't know anything about you."

"All right then." She leaned back and folded her arms, waiting. "Go ahead."

"The July Monarchy needs to be overturned."

"_What?_ Have you actually thought about what you are saying? You could be arrested or killed for that!"

"Your reaction is exactly why I'm not in the University of Paris."

"Well— I mean— _really_, monsieur. I hope you don't go around saying this in broad daylight."

"Do you think so little of me?"

"No— it just came as a shock, that all. Goodness. Have you been arrested before?"

"No, and I'm planning on keeping it that way. But I've been talking for a while and not being a gentleman— what is your story, mademoiselle?"

"You don't want to hear it."

"Why not?"

"It's quite dull compared to yours. There's no treason in mine."

"That's a good thing. Mademoiselle, it can't be that uninteresting. I promise I'll act as if it's as interesting as _Così fan tutte_ if that will help you."

"Really, I—"

"I just told you something that could get me arrested, mademoiselle. Whatever you have can't be that bad."

She looked at him, and he noticed the firelight made her high cheekbones stand out prominently.

"All right, fine, I'll tell you." She still did not seem comfortable with talking about herself.

She was a seamstress, he learned, and also embroidered for extra money. She had come to Paris when she was fifteen with her family, but soon after their arrival she ran away to make it on her own.

The one thing she did not say— the one thing that Enjolras had guessed beforehand— was an explanation about the men she would occasionally meet. But he hadn't expected her to explain that part of her life, anyway.

"Why did you leave your family?"

"Because they were just— content— to live in the slums. I wasn't satisfied with living the rest of my life that way."

"So it was ambition that made you run?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"Does being a seamstress pay good money?"

She looked away. "No, but it's something, at least. I can survive on it, so that's good enough. So now I suppose you want to know about the men I meet."

"It wouldn't have been gentlemanly of me to ask, mademoiselle."

Then she looked at him, her eyes filled with shadows and firelight. "You're the first man in years that has the thought of gallantry when in proximity with me. It's sad that it feels strange now."

"You deserve gallantry, mademoiselle."

He did not know this Éponine from the floor below. He'd only courted once, before he was expelled— and not very well, he would freely admit— because his father had told him he must be married, and a respectable girl had materialized. He knew nothing of romance or the right things to say or how to talk a girl into bed.

He only thought it sad, really, that this interesting young woman had been treated so carelessly.

Then, out of nowhere, there came several sharp, high-pitched tinkling noises came from the window.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said, and stepped over to the window.

Marius, Grantaire and Combeferre were standing in the street, waving and shouting. Combeferre called out as Enjolras opened the window. "Enjolras! Finish the paper and come to the café! It's freezing out here!"

"Who are they?" Éponine asked.

Enjolras turned to see Éponine standing just in the right position for the moonlight, dim though it may be from the dirty snow-covered window, to fall on her.

Éponine had, in his eyes, been pretty, at least, but the moonlight made her look especially lovely. It was not in the traditional sense, it was not something to be immortalized in a world-famous artwork. But there was something in her questioning eyes, the proud tilt of her neck, that perhaps Grantaire would think to capture. Here was the very image of Patria herself, proud and aloof and willing to fight, yet still gentle.

He wondered, perhaps, if he was drunk.

"It's just my other friends who live here. They're trying to coax me into going out to dinner with them."

"I'll go, then, and let you go out," Éponine said, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, both candle and key in hand. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time, you could have been out celebrating Christmas Eve."

"I forgot about it. But—"

"Yes?"

"—you shouldn't be staying in your apartment in your condition."

"That again. M. Enjolras, I won't die if I stay in my apartment tonight. Stop worrying if I'm going to keep over, if you please. I insist."

"If you're that determined, at least light your candle before you leave so you don't break your neck going down the stairs."

"That's what started this whole thing, wasn't it?" But Éponine was smiling as she knelt and lit the wick, and carefully shielded the flame with her hand. "I'll take my leave, then. Thank you for your hospitality, and has a merry Christmas Eve." Enjolras opened the door for her, and she curtsied gracefully and left.

Then he heard what he guessed were three pairs of footsteps loudly coming up to the door. Combeferre, Marius, and Grantaire burst in a few seconds later.

"It's nearly eleven thirty, Enjolras. We kept the table as long as we could, but the managers threw us out after eleven. What was it that you were writing for so long?"

"Marius—" But Marius was already looking at the paper before Enjolras could take it back.

"There's one sentence on here, Enjolras. It did not take nearly three hours to write _one sentence_."

"And why was Mlle. Éponine from the floor below coming from the garret?" Combeferre asked.

Before Enjolras could answer, Grantaire started laughing. Enjolras turned to him, irritated. "What, Grantaire?"

"Can't we all put the pieces together? Éponine from the floor below comes from the garret, and Enjolras hadn't gotten any work done. Isn't it obvious?"

"_Grantaire_—"

"Even the fact that he's trying to explain it away points to the conclusion that I think we've all come to. Enjolras has fallen in love! Or went to bed with Éponine from the floor below, whichever one you want. I've heard on the street that it's difficult to talk her into bed, but—"

"Grantaire!"

"What? Are you going to confess that you're secretly a Don Giovanni at heart...?"

"That's enough, Grantaire!"

For a few seconds, all four stared at each other.

Then Enjolras grabbed his coat and slammed the door behind him.

Combeferre started to go after him, but Grantaire stopped him, saying, "I was just being sarcastic, he should know that by now!"

"Is it that hard to think before you open your mouth, wine-cask?" Combeferre shot back as he left the garret.

He went to the end of the little hallway, to a small, nondescript door which was already open. He went up the small staircase inside the doorway, which led to the roof.

Enjolras was standing at the edge of the roof, ankle deep in snow. He did not turn when Combeferre called out his name.

"Before you say anything, Combeferre," he said as Combeferre reached the edge of the roof, "no, I am not in love, no, I didn't sleep with her, and all we did was talk. Satisfied? Take that back to Grantaire before he tells everyone in the building."

"He was being sarcastic, he said so himself."

"He was drunk, that's what he was."

"Enjolras, I can't keep being the mediator between you two, just go back and—"

"And what? Apologize? This isn't some petty one time occurrence, he's been talking and jumping to conclusions ever since we moved into the garret. I've been seriously thinking about making him leave and survive on his own for a while, but now it's looking like a possibility. And she happens to be a decent person, not just some woman who trades lovers like matches. She'll hear about this, and she'll get kicked out, you know how Bougon is, and it'll all be because of Grantaire."

"I hadn't thought about that. Do you really think Bougon would kick her out?"

"Bougon is hypocritical because of her Benoît and her husband, and she can't stand seeing an unmarried woman— sleeping around without any intention of getting married. You know that."

"I'll keep Grantaire quiet. How long are you going to stay up here?"

"I'm not sure. For a while."

Combeferre sighed. "All right. Just don't kill Grantaire when you come back." Enjolras nodded to show he had heard but said nothing. He heard Combeferre going back into the building's interior, leaving him alone.

He was not in love with Éponine, and he had no desire to sleep with her. But she could turn out to be a friend, and Grantaire's words could cause a large amount of damage if it got out.

_You're the first man in years that has the thought of gallantry when in proximity with me. It's sad that it feels strange now._

No, Grantaire's words could never get out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: _The Garret of a Bohemian_

**Author**: Camberleigh Fauconbridge

**Rating**: PG - 13 / T

**Pairings**: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras] Mosette [Marius/Cosette]

**Summary**: Inspired by Giacomo Puccini's "_La bohème_". The world's greatest example of redemption is combined with the world's greatest romantic tragedy. A group of friends argue and fall in love as they struggle to survive in a Parisian garret. Not based off RENT. 25th Anniversary. AU. É/E.

**Disclaimer**: _Les Misérables_ and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_. _La bohème_ is the property of Giacomo Puccini, Henri Murger, Luigi Illica, Giuseppe Giacosa, Théodore Barrière, Robert Dornhelm, all the casts and all the creative teams that have produced any production of _La bohème_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Imagined Cast**: Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras/Rodolfo; Samantha Barks as Éponine/Mimì; Hadley Fraser as Grantaire/Marcello; Nick Jonas as Marius/Schaunard; Jonathan Williams as Combeferre/Colline

**Author's Note**: So this is where _Garret_ strays from the _La bohème _plotline. In Puccini's opera, Mimì and Rodolfo fall in love within the space of an act (and in the 2008 film, they end up _sleeping_ together _within the same act_). Highly unrealistic if you ask me, but that's theatre for you. How else would Tony and Maria fall in love in the space of a song in _West Side Story_, or for that matter, how would Marius and Cosette fall in love from _looking_ at each other in Boublil and Schönberg's musical?

With Enjolras and Éponine, there's no chance of that. Hence the need to expand their **friendship** first.

* * *

Act I: _Rodolfo_

Scene 4

* * *

When Enjolras woke the next morning, he almost forgot about Grantaire's comments.

Then it all came back, all of Grantaire's preconceived notions of Enjolras and Éponine being in love. Having Grantaire out of the garret seemed more and more appealing every second.

But as much as Grantaire's words had made him furious, he knew, realistically, he wouldn't force Grantaire out. They were friends, and friends, however much they got on each other's nerves, did not become acrimonious towards each other to the point of not speaking to each other or refusing to see each other. Enjolras was fed up with Grantaire constantly being drunk and his habit of saying the first thing that came to his head— but Grantaire didn't have any motivation. What _would_ he do if he were forced out? Paint for tourists and spend the money on drink and do absolutely nothing with his life.

If Enjolras could talk to him and reinforce what Combeferre had said, things might turn out to be decent, at least. Bougon

But then he thought of Éponine. Enjolras did not know if Grantaire's comments had spread around the building, but if they had— and if Éponine had heard— if _Bougon_ had heard...

He got up and dressed quickly and silently. It was still dark outside, but he guessed it was around eight o'clock. Would Éponine already be out celebrating, perhaps visiting the family she had left behind? He did not know.

He closed the door quietly behind him and went down one flight of stairs to the floor where he guessed Éponine's apartment was. Though he didn't know which of the two doors was her apartment. He decided to try the right door first. He knocked quietly, but it was Marie who opened the door. The other door was Éponine's apartment, then.

"Why aren't you at Mass, young man?" Marie said.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mme. Marie. I thought this was Mlle. Éponine's apartment."

"It certainly isn't. _My_ room is filled with holiness, monsieur, while that tart over there had a man spend the night with her on the night of the birth of Jesus Christ Our Lord. Shameful and blasphemous. Get yourself to Mass and pray for her sinful soul if you know what's good for you."

Ah. Perhaps he would talk to Éponine later, then. "I—"

"Oh, that tart is headed straight for Hell, I know that for certain." Marie was just warming up. "Men come into her room at all hours of the night, and she doesn't even have a crucifix in her room. I know because I made the mistake of going into her room once. She's full of sin and nothing else. Mind you stay away from her, young man, she'll drag you down if she gets the chance. Why are you going over there, anyway?"

"I have to speak with her, madame. If you'll excuse me—"

"Have you heard nothing I've said, foolish boy? All that girl does for a living is— is— and you're going to go talk to her? You'll end up in her bed instead of having a conversation—"

But she drew back.

"But what am I saying?" She laughed lightly, covering up. "A good Christian shouldn't— well... You are a good Christian, are you not, monsieur?"

"I am, madame. If you'll excuse me—"

He turned to see almost all the tenants in the building on the staircase leading down to the other floors, and Marius, Combeferre, and Grantaire on the staircase leading to the garret. Marie had been speaking with such volume that almost everyone in the building had come to stare. Hopefully Bougon hadn't.

It did not help Éponine's case when the door to her room opened and a man stepped out. He avoided everyone's eyes and quickly went down the stairs.

"Didn't I tell you?" Marie said. "Mind you don't end up the same way." With a small smile that, if looked at correctly, could be taken as a smirk, she shut her door. The other tenants eventually drifted away.

Since he had nothing to lose now, Enjolras went over and knocked on Éponine's door.

He heard a muffled "come in!" through the wood of the door and turned the handle. Éponine's apartment had only one room, so Enjolras saw the tangled bed sheets that gave clear evidence to Marie's attacks. Other than the bed, everything in Éponine's apartment was tidy and clean.

Éponine herself was kneeling in front of the tiny window, underneath which was a faded icon of the Virgin Mary and Infant Jesus. Enjolras found it strange that she didn't have a rug or a pillow underneath her to protect her knees from the hard wooden floor.

As he quietly came in, she was murmuring to herself, "_Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus_— it's not the right prayer to say on Christmas, but what _is_ it... _Dominus_..."

"_Dominus tecum_," he offered quietly.

She did not turn around; perhaps she did not realize who it was that had spoken. "Thank you. _Dominus tecum_—"

Then she stopped.

She turned slightly, still kneeling, and stared at him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to— warn you about something."

"What is it?"

"One of my friends jumped to the conclusion, yesterday, that you and I were in love or had spent a night together. There's a possibility he may spread it throughout the building."

She got up, staring at him, her eyes shadowed and almost dusky. "Why would he do that?"

"To make it seem as if I have— been with someone."

She turned and went to a table upon which was a small jewelry box, clearly angry, the boots of her heels clicking on the old wooden floor. "Does _no_ one respect that there's something called survival? We can't all sit around and be virtuous and expect to see food on the table!" She stabbed earrings through the small piercings in her ears; Enjolras, not knowing anything about jewelry, half-expected her to stab a hole in her earlobe. He guessed she was, without noticing, hinting to her occupation as a lover to the mysterious men she would meet every so often.

Then she turned to him suddenly. "Does your friend realize what will happen if Bougon hears about this?"

"I'm going to talk to him to make sure that it—"

"Talk to him? _Talk_ to him? That's all you can do? Your friend doesn't realize the state of Paris outside your cozy little garret, does he? He doesn't realize that if I'm kicked out, I'll freeze to death and it'll be because of him!"

Was it going to become a habit, whenever they talked it would end up in an argument? "Mlle. Éponine, I promise you it will be cleared up and that you will be in no danger of being evicted."

"And how do I know you're going to keep your word? How do I know you don't have some alternate motive?"

"Do you think so little of me, mademoiselle?"

"Perhaps," she snapped. "Now, please, just—" She pressed her lips together tightly and turned away. "Forgive me, monsieur." Her voice was quieter, softer. "I did not mean what I said."

"You do not have to apologize. Everything you said was perfectly valid."

"But it wasn't, monsieur."

"Look—" He crossed the room and briefly touched her shoulder so she would turn. "You have every right to be angry, for you would affected more than I. If you truly want my forgiveness, then may we shake hands and call ourselves friends?"

"I suppose so, yes." She slid her slender hand into his and shook it firmly. "Friends, if that's what you wish."

"But would you like it as well?"

She considered his question. "Yes. I believe I would." Then her eyes narrowed warningly. "But no 'friends with benefits'. I want to make that absolutely clear."

"I wouldn't ask it of you, mademoiselle."

"Thank you," she said. "And that's another thing. All the honorary and honorifics— if we're friends, then we wouldn't be using 'monsieur' or 'mademoiselle'. Agreed?" He hesitated, thinking of her comments about gallantry the day before, but she seemed to guess his thoughts and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, it won't be that hard. 'Éponine' is certainly much easier to say than 'mademoiselle', Enjolras. I repeat: are we agreed? Or do you have something else in mind?"

"Agreed— Éponine."

"There. It wasn't that hard, was it? What are your plans for this surprisingly fine Christmas Day?"

"I hadn't planned anything. Work, I suppose. And what of you?"

"I might visit my brother." Éponine went back to the jewelry box, looking inside it and shifting through the contents. "He ran away from home a few years before I left, and now he's living on the streets. It's funny that he's happier than he ever was before."

"How old is your brother?"

"Eleven." At his look of surprise, she added: "I know, it's young to be living on your own, but he never did like living at home. He's like me, I guess. I might visit my sister as well, who's still living with my parents— she's about fifteen, before you ask— and maybe meet her in a café or something. Somewhere away from our parents. Then I'll probably work on some mending or embroidery."

"No Mass?" asked Enjolras— before he remembered the conversation with Marie.

Éponine grew still, her hand still resting in the jewelry box. "No," she said softly, looking away. "No Mass."

"If... you don't mind my asking..." he ventured, "why not go to Mass? Unless," he hastened to add, "that's too personal a question, and even more so when we've just become friends."

"No, no, it's all right." She sighed and finally looked at him. "I wasn't really raised with religion, I suppose. My father only called himself a practicing Catholic to get more money, and paid lip service when he had to; and my mother— well, she tried, sort of, but she was never devout. I try—" she gestured to the icon— "but going to a Mass, especially a Mass where all the important, _rich_ figures will be there as well... I don't want to have to stand in the back and feel them all judging me. For what I am."

Again, the almost blatant hint of her _other occupation_, the one besides mending and embroidering. "The opinion that truly matters comes from Someone who doesn't think like that."

"I know." Then she pushed aside the melancholy, brightening— although almost with effort—, drew a necklace out of the jewelry box, and fastened it around her neck. "Well, I'm off. I have to meet up with my siblings. I have to lock up, so if you don't mind stepping out into the hall..."

"Of course." Enjolras followed Éponine out the door and stood by as she locked it behind her. He began, "Éponine, I was wondering—"

Just then Marie left her apartment, and saw the two together in the hallway. He could almost feel the heat of her sharp gaze as her eyes raked over them. She addressed Enjolras: "Are you sure she didn't coerce you into her bed? And on the day of the _birth_ of Our _Lord_."

"_Madame—!_"

Éponine grabbed his arm as he stepped forward. "Enjolras, stop!" she whispered. "_Think_ about this for a second—" Marie smirked, clearly this time, as she went down the stairs, rosary in hand. Éponine continued— "Enjolras, don't be rash about this."

"If anything, _you_ should be rash about this. Why didn't you say anything?" She looked away as he spoke.

"Maybe it's because I'm used to it," she finally said.

Then she hurried away and disappeared down the stairs, leaving him certain of one thing.

He had to talk to Grantaire immediately.


End file.
